


Sacrament

by blackmoonalcolyte (jomipay)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Confessions, Horn Stimulation, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Resurrection, Sex Positive Asexual Character, cannon asexual character, post 174, spoilers for 174, tiefling Wilde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:53:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27500314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jomipay/pseuds/blackmoonalcolyte
Summary: It is bitterly cold, though he does not feel it. His blood is hot, warmer than he can ever remember it being before, and it makes him shiver as it seeps into every corner of his body. Wilde can see the steam rising off and away from his overheated skin. He is a bit distracted currently, and only pays it the slightest attention. He wonders idly if it is because his skin was so cold, before. If it is because his body had spent so much time soaking up the cold as it lay in the snow. He thinks of making tea in the early morning on the airship, of watching the steam billow away from the cup and into the crisp morning air.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34





	Sacrament

**Author's Note:**

> I blame WIR for turning me on to the idea of tiefling Wilde and I liked the idea of horns being extra sensitive so have some smut with feelings.

Zolf was the last thing he thought of before he hit the ground. How fitting then, that his eyes were the first thing Wilde saw when he finally reopens his own. He opens his eyes slowly, trying to hold onto the memories of that place in between before letting them slip away and slowly fade. He registers Zolf’s solid arms around him, the warmth of his body working together with the blood newly pumping through his newly revived body to make him shiver as it floods him. He clings to Zolf when his body catches up to his mind, catching the fabric of his shirt under pointed nails. He trips over words in his mind, in his rush to get them out, in his rush to say something, anything to get the enormity of this emotion across. He almost missed his chance to do this.

“I love—” Wilde begins at the same time Zolf whispers into his skin, “Don’t ever do that again.”

There is a pause, and then they talk over each other again, recognition dawning on Zolf’s face as Wilde promises, “I’ll do my best,” at the same time as Zolf starts to tell him “I love—”

They each manage to get half of their confession out before they seal their lips together and tumble into a tent.

“Do I still look like me?” Wilde asks, breathless and the feeling of the blood collecting in his swollen lips is foreign. But it is only foreign in the way that a distant memory, a phantom touch from the ghosts of lover’s past--ill-remembered and incomparable to the present lover--are all foreign.

Zolf takes a moment to stare. His eyes flick up and down Wilde’s form, lingering on a spot above his hairline and then longer still on his eyes.

“Yes.” He eventually decides, and nods resolutely.

Wilde won’t be able to tell what has changed in his eyes, at least not until he gets his hands, with their strange talon-nails, on a mirror. His vision still looks mostly the same, though it seems sharper, more vivid. Though, he can’t be certain that’s not the fault of the adrenaline or the renewed vigor. He does reach up to run a hand through his hair. Zolf reaches his hand out as if to intercept him and then decides against it, letting his hand come up to cup Wilde’s jaw instead. His hair is wet and tangled--it’s going to be a pain to deal with later--but more than that there seems to be something stuck in it. Further investigation tells him that there are indeed two somethings ‘stuck’ in it, and they appear to be stuck to his skull in a rather permanent fashion. He runs his hands over the horns curiously, tracing the ridges of them, alternating between rough and smooth textures and curling to a point over the back of his head.

His hand is only shaking slightly when he brings it down to cover Zolf’s where it rests against his jaw. 

“That’s going to take some getting used to.” He whispers, leaning down far enough that their breath mingles in one puff of steam in the tent. 

Zolf strokes his cheek with the other hand, gaze curious as he looks into whatever Wilde’s eyes look like now. He does not have time to ponder this fact, or to be insecure about it, because in the next instant their lips are sealed together once again, and moving against each other with a fervor that overwhelms him and drives all other thought from his mind and all other sensation from his skin. Zolf doesn’t usually crave physicality. Wilde knows he isn’t opposed, but he doesn’t hunger for it the way others sometimes do, the way he does. His touch now though, could fool him. It is hungry, possessive, searching. He clings to Wilde, his mouth searching, his kisses possessive and claiming—life affirming.

Wilde pulls away as Zolf tugs at the bottom of his tattered shirt, a question in his eyes that must still come through despite their apparent change in appearance, for Zolf answers it at once. 

“Want to feel you.” He murmurs, hiding his face against his chest, against a sensitive mass of knotted scar tissue. Zolf’s arms tighten around his waist, fingers fisting in what is left of his shirt and he is suffused with warmth, from the heat of his body and emotion both. 

“Want to convince myself you’re real.”

It’s said so quietly, he almost doesn’t catch it. But he manages it. An ear twitches towards the muffled whisper, angles itself to catch the sound, and he supposes that his ears must be a bit different now, too. He places a gentle hand under Zolf’s chin, lifts it and joins their mouths once more. They kiss heatedly, stripping off layers with no mind for the cold outside of the tent. There are blankets spread across the floor that they settle upon, and those are warm enough, Wilde thinks as he kisses his way down Zolf’s familiar and solid body, over solid muscle and the familiar lines of his tattoos. He runs his hands over the heavily corded muscle in Zolf’s thighs, feels them contract as he takes Zolf into his mouth.

It is bitterly cold, though he does not feel it. His blood is hot, warmer than he can ever remember it being before, and it makes him shiver as it seeps into every corner of his body. Wilde can see the steam rising off and away from his overheated skin. He is a bit distracted currently, and only pays it the slightest attention. He wonders idly if it is because his skin was so cold, before. If it is because his body had spent so much time soaking up the cold as it lay in the snow. He thinks of making tea in the early morning on the airship, of watching the steam billow away from the cup and into the crisp morning air. 

Thick fingers tighten in his hair and he groans around the wonderful weight in his mouth, once again firmly grounded in the here and now. Wilde’s always liked going down on his partners. Doubly so if he’s in love with them, and it’s become clear that he’s in love with Zolf. He redoubles his efforts. His thin and somewhat unfamiliar fingers sink into the skin around Zolf’s hips as he hollows his cheeks to create more suction. He is rewarded with a breathless groan. He tightens his grip again and the tips of his sharpened nails, his claws, dig into Zolf’s skin and the dwarf hisses. Wilde makes to pull off, to utter an apology for the facets of this body he is not yet accustomed to. Zolf bucks his hips into his hold, pushing his skin into the sharp points of his nails and Wilde returns to his good work, now adequately assured that no apology is necessary. He looks up at Zolf through lashes that are perhaps a bit longer than they used to be and meets his gaze.

The green in Zolf’s eyes is beautiful and familiar and they are fixed on him with such tenderness and devotion that Wilde feels he might vibrate out of his brand-new skin with it. He can’t bring himself to look away, not even for a second. He pours all the love he has into this action, into this act of love, into this sacrament. Zolf is looking at him, looking at him with love in his eyes and he cannot, will not look away. Not for anything. He has never felt more alive than he does right now.

Zolf tugs at his hair again and the sensation is electrifying. He moans, loudly, only slightly concerned that someone in a nearby tent could hear. Everything is magnified, every touch feels so impossibly good. Every brush of skin against his overheated and over sensitized skin feels like nothing ever has before. So much extra energy is coursing through him, he’s not sure if it’s adrenaline or residual magic from the ritual bouncing around in his new body. The feeling of taking Zolf’s cock into the back of his throat feels the same as the act always has, though this is the first time he has done it with Zolf. His body feels, and looks, mostly the same from what he can tell so far. What does feel different, is the starburst of sensation that shoots down his spine when Zolf wraps a hand around a horn, right near the base. He jumps and Zolf rushes to apologize, taking his hand away. 

Wilde grabs the wrist and puts it firmly back over the horn, pulling off Zolf just enough to breathlessly beg, “Do that again.” 

He groans and Zolf gets the idea, wrapping his freehand around Wilde’s other horn and pulling him this way and that, each tug a magnified well of sensation and pleasure. He moans at the sensation the pull on his horns sends coursing through him. Wilde has indulged in the pleasures of skin many, many times, but it has never felt this utterly good or divine. Zolf pulls harder against his horns and he moans around the cock in his mouth, pushing himself down until he can swallow and moan around it in his throat. Zolf’s hands wrapped firmly around each horn feels so blessedly good that even with Zolf’s cock effectively gagging him, he’s sure anyone walking by the tent would still be able to hear him crying out his pleasure. Zolf’s breathing changes, his grip tightens and Wilde keens as Zolf comes down his throat in hot electrifying pulses that echo the delicious throbbing emanating from the place Zolf’s hands are fisted around his horns. His grip loosens as his breathing slows and he pulls Wilde up to rest nestled against his chest. Zolf pulls some of the blankets out from under them and uses them to shelter against the cold. He strokes through Wilde’s hair and over his horns and that feels magnificent, too. He gives Wilde a chance to catch his breath before dragging a hand over his bare torso and closing it around his aching and leaking cock at the same moment he wraps his other hand around a horn and Wilde chokes out a bitten off cry. As he luxuriates in the feeling of being curled in his lover’s arms, of being taken care of so completely, he finds he doesn’t mind the changes to his body, not if they feel like this.

**Author's Note:**

> This is super fast and loose as far as reincarnation resurrection mechanics in pathfinder go. I just kind of smushed them together with all the wild magic in the north to produce tiefling Wilde. Also Wilde doesn’t ever get to see his eyes in this fic, but I imagine that they’re pupil-less golden orbs.Thank you for reading lovely darlings.


End file.
